A Pygmalion Tale
by jemisard
Summary: A tale of a dwarf who made the only true beauty. Is movie based, not AU, though may seem so at first. Mild slash


Once, there was a dwarf. He was a very rich dwarf, and he was very skilled. He had a large family, with many nieces and nephews and cousins and brothers and sisters, and he was the heir to a proud line.

This dwarf, he was very skilled. He could make rock flow like simple clay under his hands, shape metals so masterfully that they were mistaken for miracles of Gods, and he had all the raw material he needed to make the most beautiful things he could.

But the dwarf was very lonely. He had no wife, and he had no children. For whilst he prized beauty above all, he could never find anyone that he considered to be truly beautiful.

He had seen dwarven women, with strong bodies and comely faces, but they were not beautiful enough for him.

He had seen human women, with their longer bodies and still sturdy frames, but they were plain with no outstanding features.

He had seen the petite hobbit women, with curls and bouncing bodies, but they were too childish to be truly beautiful.

He had seen elven women, the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, but they were fragile and their frailness made them unappealing.

So, he sat alone in his workshops, creating items of wonder for all those around him, never able to find the most beautiful thing that he craved.

One day, as he sat in his workshop, he laid his gaze upon a piece of white marble that had been brought to him from the deepest mines of Moria. He closed his eyes and he dreamt.

He dreamt of skin the colour of the marble, and hair of gold. He saw eyes that burnt with fire, that were rainbow dark, not black, but giving the illusion of it. He saw long strong limbs, sturdy but fine, strong yet graceful, and he felt lips that were as pink rose petals from the lands above.

When he awoke, he set about making his perfect beauty.

He carved the marble into limbs that, had they been given life, would have been strong and enduring, but still graceful and elegant to behold. He made subtle curves, not generous like a woman's, but softer than a man's should be. He made a breast unlike a woman's, flat and strong like he had beheld on elves. The face was hardest, soft yet strong, refined but not snobbish, beautiful and yet not aloof, unselfconscious in its wonder.

The body carved, he set about making hair. Long, shimmering hair, that glowed gold in the sun and reddish with firelight. Hair cascaded about the broad shoulders, half drawn back off the face bar the two plaits by either elegantly drawn out ear. He spun gold into the finest silk to make it move and shimmer.

He made eyes from jet, dark and polished, attentive and wise, ancient but still playful, innocence not yet lost.

He finished his statue, and knew that he was in love. He had made the most beautiful creature he could conceive of, and if others did not agree, he did not care.

This was his masterpiece.

He spent hours with the statue, talking to it, stroking its long golden hair. His family worried for his obsession was consuming him, he wanted nothing more nor less than to spend time in its presence.

He loved it more than anything else in this world or the next.

His love did an amazing thing. One day, as he sat brushing its hair, his own frame thin and weak from neglect, he felt the golden silk ripple under his hands. He moved his fingers to the cold stone and felt it warm where he touched, becoming supple and soft.

He turned around his statue and watched it, him, blink for the first time and smile sweetly as he behold the source of his life and the love that had made him live.

The sculptor was shocked to find the muscles just as he thought when he was swept up into those arms, strong yet graceful at the same time. And the pink lips were softer than rose petals when they kissed him.

And whilst he always feared that he would lose his beloved living beauty, he was reassured that no one would ever replace him in the statue's heart. He had made the statue live, and for that, they would always be in love.

0

The children sat enthralled by the end of the story. The elderly dwarf coughed and rubbed his hand through his beard.

"What happened to them? What happened to the dwarf and his statue?"

He glanced down at one of the children. "Well, they lived happily after that, and whilst they both wandered far and wide, they loved each other forever."

Any further questions were stalled by a resounding thus on the door before an irate sister, mother to some of the children, came in. "He's here."

"Who's here? Who is it?" The children asked excitedly.

The older dwarf said nothing, he simply gathered his axes and headed out with a train of children following behind him.

They reached the entrance to the great city and the children gasped as the statue stepped out from the shadows. His hair was like spun gold silk, his eyes dark and his body lean under the green and brown clothes he wore. He had a mischievous but tender smile on his face as he beheld their storytelling uncle.

The dwarf strode forwards and embraced his friend, feeling strong but slender limbs wrap around him in return.

"Uncle? Is that the statue?"

The elf, for that was what he was, drew back from the dwarf. "Have you been telling them that story about the sculptor?"

"Maybe, love. They wanted a new one, and it was the only one I had to bring from the Glimmering Caves. You just don't like being in it."

"I wrote it," the elf accused. "I told it to you because I love you, you stubborn dwarf."

"And I love you too, crazy elf."

The children watched as the pair retired back to the dwarf's home.


End file.
